


Figments?

by millygal



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 14:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10641861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: How can someone so real be just a figment?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Slash and introspection. I'm actually really proud of this. Been writing it for a few days on and off. It just wouldn't leave me alone.

Sam's rickety old camp bed isn't strong enough for one, let alone _two_ overly enthusiastic men. It shakes and creaks, slamming the formica cupboard against the wall, leaving little dents and gouges, giving the two sweating occupants their very own disjointed soundtrack. 

As Sam feels Gene burry himself balls deep, as he pushes his legs as high and as wide as he can against Gene's shoulders, he knows that some nosy busy body is putting two and two together, coming up with a fairly disturbing four.

The neighbours will hear, they always do. They see the burley blonde arrive and they'll watch him leave, still tucking and zipping and buttoning things together. 

It's the same every night. They don't know who he is, they don't really know the owner of the flat, just that he's something to do with the law. That on it's own is enough for them to avoid eye contact in the halls.

This bloke, whoever he is, turns up at the door carrying a brown paper bag, probably booze, running his hands through his hair and shuffling his feet. He seems nervous somehow, like he's not there of his own free will. A fish caught on a hook being tugged towards the bell. He glances over his shoulder every ten seconds until the door's finally pulled open. 

When it is, he hesitates for a second, warring with himself perhaps? He always disappears inside though. He's not run away once, yet. 

Sam knows their being watched. It's not hard, he's a detective after all. Or he used to be. He's heard the whispers in the laundry room, seen the looks he gets. So why does he continue to let Gene into his home? Knowing there's a curtain twitcher on every floor, passing information around like special ops. Maybe he should ask them to join the force. They're better informed than half his squad. 

Deep down, Sam knows exactly why he allows Gene into his flat, into his bed. He's tangible, something solid to hold onto. Everything about this place is muzzy, faded and fuzzy round the edges. Gene's rough and heavy and anchors Sam's mind aswell as his body. Sometimes he thinks he might just fly apart without him.

He tastes real, smells real. There isn't anything more real than the stench of day old Bells and Dunhill wafting up your nose while you're being fucked into a saggy, threadbare mattress.

Sam understands he's most likely insane.

This coma bollocks, probably some figment dreamt up to block out the fact he's bat shit crazy. Throwing himself at padded walls somewhere in 2006. Even so...He's begun to _want_ it to be real. All these cases, all those nameless faces at work. Chris, Annie, Phyllis. Even Ray, in fact, if Ray's real then that means he really felt it when Sam bounced his head off that locker. That gives Sam some measure of comfort.

Gene. Shit, god help him but he wants, _needs_ Gene to be real. If he isn't then...then the most meaningful, longest lasting relationship he's ever had has been with a figment of his imagination. An illusion. Jesus, what does that say about his psyche?

Don't misunderstand, Sam isn't stupid enough to think Gene wants Sam as much as Sam wants him. It's an abusive, childish, name calling, hair pulling relationship. Sometimes it reminds him of being seven years old, stood in the playground with his first real crush. He told her she smelt of doggy doo, stamped on her foot and ran like the wind. Every instinct is yelling for Sam to run, again. _Runrunrunrunrun_.

If he isn't real though, why does Sam's heart race everytime they're inches apart, screaming or throwing punches? Why does he feel drunk _everytime_ his lips come into contact with rough skin? He doesn't mean merry drunk either, he means fall-on-your-arse-pissed-as-a-handcart, don't know up from down, black from white, fucked. Gene Hunt sends his world spinning and damn him if he doesn't get off on it.

So, how can such a weighty man, someone with such a hold over him, such a presence, be a figment? Smoke and mirrors, mother fucking smoke and mirrors.

He's cloying and smothering. He makes Sam madder than hell constantly, they clash and they hate each other. Harsh words and even harsher blows. Still, Sam waits for the knock, waits for **thudthudthud** with baited breath. He thinks maybe one day he'll suffocate, one day his heart'll actually give out on him, waiting, just waiting.

Gene's speeding up, getting closer and closer to the finish line. It always feels like a race, like Gene needs this to be over as quickly and as quietly as possible.  
  
Sam'd be content to live on his back, as long as it was Gene sweating and heaving above him. Now what does _that_ say about his psyche?

Sam grunts and groans, fights against the air being forced out of his lungs by the man with the piercing blue eyes that stare right through him. He grits his teeth and goes for broke. If this is all smoke and mirrors, he's going to enjoy it, blazing insanity be damned.

Reaching up, raking his hands through silken hair, he grasps at Genes neck. Pulling him into focus, forcing him to really see the man beneath him. See the sweat gathering on Sam's top lip, see the pain mixed with pleasure in his eyes. Really see what it is they're doing.

For the first time since they started this, Gene's eyes become clear, sharp. Regardless of the alcohol still drowning his system, he's fully aware. His movements stutter and Sam can see the panic building, rising from somewhere deep inside. Like some snarling beast, ready to rip through this thing they have.

Sam sees it and doesn't think twice about forestalling it. Maybe it'd be easier to just let Gene back away and flee. Maybe it'd break his brains connection with this place, but he can't do it, doesn't want to. So he leans up on his elbows and brushes his lips gently across his Guv's. Just once, the softest of caresses. But it's enough, the panic recedes and in it's place Sam sees something he's been angling for since he got dumped on his arse in this bizzarro land of flared trousers and fishy coppers. Acceptance. 

There's something behind Genes eyes now, something else building, ready to come out in full force and take them both off their feet. Real want. Real need. 

Gene grunts, once, signalling his release. Instead of just climbing off and disappearing into the ether, he continues to pump his fist around Sam's cock.  
  
In amongst the buzzing in Sam's ears and blurring of vision, he can see Gene watching him. Watching him come apart at the seams. It fills Sam with an uncontrollable urge to laugh.

He bites his lip and rides it out. 

When Gene leaves, it isn't at a run, shoes half off, shirt still unbuttoned. It's fully dressed and smirking. "See you tomorrow Sammy boy. Don't stay up too late, will ya?"  
  
Sam smiles and nods, holding the door for him. Just as he's about to close it Gene turns and presses his lips to Sam's. Lingering there for a second, he pulls away and disappears. If this is insanity, may he never be normal again.

Just as Sam shuts himself inside his aged flat, he thinks he hears the click of a neighbours door.

Smiling to himself, he hopes they've come up with five this time.

 


End file.
